


Caught in the Middle

by PandyMilkovich



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Gen, contains speculated spoilers for season 6, implied mention of abortion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-08
Updated: 2015-12-08
Packaged: 2018-05-05 16:31:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5382248
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PandyMilkovich/pseuds/PandyMilkovich
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>She still didn't feel the smallest shred of guilt about the things she had said to Fiona. People could call her a stubborn teenager, ignorant and young, but as far as she was concerned, everything she said was right.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Caught in the Middle

**Author's Note:**

> Lowkey tried to avoid the Not a Girl, Not Yet a Woman by Britney Spears comparisons, but I think it's very fitting for where Debbie is right now. Title pulled from that song.

 

The sound of subtle, shallow breaths filled the room. Debbie sat wide awake in the dark, where she didn’t have to be brave, or prove a point. She could unwind the tight string she held herself together with and spiral to the ground. No commentary from anyone, the night like a haven, protecting her from the criticism of everyone around her. She just stared at the ceiling, waiting.  Waiting for her baby to cry, waiting for herself to cry, waiting to fall asleep, waiting for the next feeding, the next diaper, the next burp.

She wanted to sleep, her eyes were heavy, her limbs were tired and weak. She couldn't understand why, Franny was only a week old, weighing eight pounds, yet when she picked her up her arms felt like thin twigs unable to carry her small bundle.

She lay there, anticipating Franny to wake up soon. Something about instinct, knowing when your baby is going to wake up, jolting you up before the baby even opens its mouth. Franny didn't have to open her mouth, though, her cried played on a constant loop, echoing in Debbie’s mind, over and over again. It was there when it wasn't, always taunting her; a phantom of a baby in distress.

Debbie looked at Franny, just mother and daughter, all alone in the room. Then it happened, a rush in her stomach, a sadness draping over her. Debbie’s eyes started to prickle, filled to the brim with heavy tears. The doctor said this would happen. Hormones. You cry and cry and cry for no reason at all when you first become a mother.

Debbie thought that was bullshit, though. She had plenty of reasons to cry. Derek was gone, didn't matter where he went, but he wasn’t in Chicago. Everyday Franny looked more and more like him; her pigment got darker, her jet black hair was thick and unruly. She couldn't escape the boy who escaped her, no matter how hard she tried.

Fiona was off, wherever she was, planning weddings, pretending she still cared about her family when she didn't. And Frank, _fucking_ Frank. He had been the biggest disappointment, as usual, supporting Debbie’s decision, just to rush out the door at the first wail that left the baby’s mouth.

Debbie blinked, a thick tear running down the side of her face, before Franny started. Small whimpers, the tiny rustling just a few feet away from her, started to build. The cracks of her noises working up to a full cry. Debbie suddenly felt overwhelmed, trapped under a collapsing building of poor choices and a bad judgment call; suffocating.

She shot up, escaping the room but not the noises. In her room and in her head; cry, cry, cry. She shut the bathroom door, locking it, and slid down to the floor. Sobbing heavily, she heaved. It was too much weight to bear on her own. She bent her legs in tight against her chest, wrapping her arms around her knees, and squeezed them desperately. She held herself together firmly, trying not to hug herself so hard that she banished herself from existence. Tighter, tighter, tighter, she grounded herself there.

The cries got louder, keeping her in reality. Like a broken vortex, refusing to pull her away from this nightmare. She had to live it, had to get up, but she couldn't. She wanted to, she wanted to get up and help the baby, but the load holding her down made her efforts futile.

The blending emotions of a girl and a woman swirled together, constricting her airways; she sobbed. She thought she was mature, thought she could handle it, but she was wrong. Biology doesn't care about maturity, experience or knowledge. She held the burden of a pubescent girl, and a woman postpartum. It was too heavy in her arms, the load causing her to fall apart, spread across the ground like a shattered glass.

Franny screamed louder, the kind of high-pitched noise that could break a window pane. Debbie felt a rush in her breasts before they began to ache; hungry. She couldn't move, though, paralyzed on the cold tile like ice sticking to a damp cloth; her back shook.

A soft tap on the door startled her. “Debs?” a hushed voice seeped through the thin door; Ian. “Debs, the baby's cryin’.”

Her heart clenched, she knew Franny was crying for her mother, but her mother was just a girl; as lost and scared as the baby that needed her.

“Comin’,” her voice cracked, giving away her broken condition. She scrubbed her sleeve along her eyes, drying the tears, only for them to reappear. She took a few long breaths. Nothing. Her shoulders hunched forward, crippling under the stress and sadness, the misery and confusion, and she continued the endless cycle; cry, cry, cry.

“I'll get her,” Ian said, and Debbie screwed her eyes shut, crumbling at her failure.

“Thanks,” she managed to croak out.

She needed to get up, needed to prove Fiona wrong. After a few long minutes, Franny’s crying stopped. The tears fell from Debs’ eyes unceremoniously, still. Just falling, trekking, pouring, without reason.

“Uh, Debs.” Ian’s voice was back. “I think she's hungry.”

Debbie took a deep breath, her nipples already feeling the stabbing effect at the thought of breastfeeding again. They were raw and sore, the only relief from the concrete feeling on her chest was to let Franny eat. “Okay.” She took a deep breath, hoisting up off the floor and pulling herself together. The string wound up again, holding her up high.

She opened the door. Ian was cradling his niece carefully, rocking her back and forth, slow and steady. “You okay?” he asked, bobbing gently.

Debbie knew her face was swollen, eyes red with dark, gray bags hanging low beneath them, so there was no point in lying, not to Ian anyway.

“No,” she answered tiredly, grabbing the baby and making her way to her room.

“Want me to sit with you?” Ian offered.

Debbie softened her expression, realizing she wasn't completely alone, but knew she needed to learn to be. “It's okay, but thanks.” She disappeared into her room.

She climbed in her bed, situated a pillow on her lap, lifting her shirt and pressing Franny against her chest to eat. She looked up, eyes closed, as the sharp pain set in where Franny ate. She choked out a small sob, then rocked the body back and forth, slow and steady. “I got ya,” she whispered through the pain.

///////

Debbie squinted her eyes open, not knowing how long she had been asleep. The yellow morning light streamed into her room, and she was barely used to its presence. The first thing she noticed was that her baby wasn't in the room anymore, but there was a thermos of coffee on her nightstand, the smell enticing her. She grabbed it, uncapped it and reached for her phone that was blinking with a notification. A text from Carl, _Ian has Franny. Left u coffee, we’re downstairs._

Debbie smiled, closing the text and sipping the still hot coffee. She let herself enjoy the feeling of the coffee meeting her blood, the warm liquid trickling through her veins and waking her up. She glanced at the clock, 9:14. She slept through at least two feedings, and she felt it on her chest. She rushed out of bed, hoping Fiona wasn't home to throw a snide comment at her. _Gonna be a mom, gotta get up with the baby. This is your baby, not Ian’s or Carl's_. She prepared her confident face, the memory of the night discarded as she got dressed.

Debbie grabbed a sweatshirt, throwing it over her head and tying a tight knot in her hair. She shuffled through the hallway, preparing her strong face, and eyes veiled with assurance. She was almost at the stairs when she heard Fiona, and stopped short to listen.

“Go wake her up!” Debbie could practically see Fiona leaned against the counter, one arm across her chest, the other pointing sternly at the stairs. “This is _her_ baby, _her_ responsibility. She’s not gonna learn anything if you keep doin’ everything for her.”

“She's tired, Fi,” Ian tried, his words dripping with compassion.

Fiona snorted lightly. “She can get in line. I've been tired for ten years.”

“And we helped you,” Carl cut in.

“Yeah, well, after the way she's been treatin’ me, my heart isn't feelin’ too charitable.” Debbie heard cabinets opening and shutting, the familiar noises of Fiona getting ready. Mug from the cabinet, sugar from the dish, coffee from the carafe; set, sprinkle, pour, sip, clean up. Debbie looked at her thermos, coffee made the same way, suddenly realizing who made it.

She still didn't feel the smallest shred of guilt about the things she had said to Fiona. People could call her a stubborn teenager, ignorant and young, but as far as she was concerned, everything she said was right.

“That's not how it works!” Carl argued. Debbie heard his heavy stomps through the living room, then watched him whip his coat from the rack, shrugging it on.

“Where you goin'?” Fiona called after him.

“Out!” he barked.

“Carl!” The door slammed.

Debbie felt moisture build in her eyes, her heart filling with pride as she heard Carl stick up for her, idly wondering where he was off to. Her gut twisted with hatred and spite for Fiona, though, no coffee could undo what she did, especially after the way she treated her.

The two sat on polar opposite sides, floating, drifting, sailing away from each other more and more as time went on. Debbie used to think she knew Fiona, thought Fiona knew her. But as Debbie got older, blossoming into a woman too soon, she saw that the person she is, and the person she was, wasn’t anything like the sister she looked up to, at least not now.

“He’s right, ya know.” Ian said after a beat, more level headed than Carl. “We're family, we help each other and she needs help,” Ian reasoned. “She's fifteen, Fi. She doesn't know what the fuck she's doin’.” Debbie heard Fiona mutter something she couldn't quite make out, the anger pooling in her gut. “You were fifteen takin’ care of babies, you should know.”

Debbie heard Fiona sigh, almost seeing the picture in her mind. Her eyes falling, lips fixed in a frown. “Yeah, but I wasn't _havin_ ’ em at fifteen,” Fiona deflected. There was silence for a moment, before the sound of porcelain clanking in the sink broke the moment. “I gotta go meet Vee, gettin’ my dress today.” Debbie didn't think she sounded as excited as she could’ve. “Can you feed Liam when he wakes up?” There was a sound of a coat rustling.

“Yeah,” Ian agreed.

Then Debbie heard it, felt that rush through her breasts again, never quite prepared for it when it happened; Franny began to cry.

“Go get her,” Fiona said sharply, before Debbie heard the backdoor close.

She paraded the rest of the way down the stairs, walking over to Ian and reaching for the baby. Her eyes teared, blurring her vision slightly. Her chest contorted with a kaleidoscope of emotions, ones she couldn't understand, and were beyond her control. She was frustrated, tired, and sad, all directed towards Fiona.

“I got her,” Debbie said, more irritable than she intended.

Now it was about proving a point. She didn't need them, any of them. Fiona was wrong about her and Ian, as well as he intended, was wrong, too. She didn’t want the help anymore, and didn’t need it; not if the help was combined with ridicule and antagonism. She had taken care of kids her whole life. She ran a daycare at eleven, bought her first baby doll at eight. She pushed back the idea that this was completely different, refusing to acknowledge the fact, but it slipped through the cracks in her mind anyway. There was no escaping this baby, no one to give it back to, no where to stash it when she got bored. The constant demand burying her like a ton of stones. She pushed them away, shaking the tears from her eyes and grabbing Franny.

Ian hovered for a second, making sure the squirming baby was firm in her grip, and Debbie could feel his eyes on her. “I'm fine,” she answered his silent question.

Ian let out a short breath. “She's wrong,” he said. “You shouldn't have to do it alone.” Debbie sat quietly on the couch, and wondered from the way Ian looked at the baby if he was missing a different one. “I’m gonna help you. Carl, too. Fiona isn't always right,” he repeated, driving the point home.

“No kidding.” Debbie rolled her eyes, making Ian chuckle. He reached out, pulling her forehead to his lips, then made his way to the kitchen.

Debbie dried her eyes, bracing herself to feed the baby, still not able to look at her when she did. Breastfeeding was supposed to help you bond with your baby, but Debbie didn't feel it. She just felt the agonizing pain and the relentless thoughts that wished her away from where she sat.

She rocked her body, falling into a steady rhythm as Franny ate, keeping her calm. She dared a look at her, seeing a whole crown of dark her. She really did love her baby, she knew that, but it didn't mean it wasn't hard. People told her it would be. _The hardest thing you’ll ever do_ , they said. She thought she knew that, thought she had it all figured out. She didn't. But even with that, the cries, the loneliness, the people flanked on the sidelines waiting for her to fuck up, she loved her baby.

She finished up, burped Franny quickly then laid her on the couch to change her. Debbie yawed deeply, stretching her hand out and grabbing a diaper. She wiped Franny clean, discarding the dirty diaper as her mouth stretched open again, eyes squinting shut as she slid the clean diaper under Franny’s bottom. She searched for the tabs, furrowing her brows in confusion.

“Think ya need more coffee.” Ian smiled, leaned against the door frame, sipping from his own mug.

Debbie looked back, embarrassed and exhausted. Ian smirked nonjudgmentally, and Debbie felt herself laugh. Her mouth not used to the muscles working as they quirked up into a smile, feeling unfamiliar on her face.

“Don't tell anyone about this,” she warned Ian.

“Never,” he promised.

////

“Debbie?” Carl called out when he came through the door.

“Shh,” she snapped, pointing at Franny fast asleep in the hand-me-down swing from Svetlana.

“Sorry,” he whispered. “Got ya this!” He held up a black bag, a wide grin spreading across his face.

Debbie blinked in confusion, “You got me the world’s ugliest diaper bag?” she asked dryly.

Carl frowned. “No!” He set it down on the table. “It’s so you can milk, or whatever,” he said evasively, blushing at the term.

“A pump?”

“Yeah, that thing,” he confirmed.

Debbie quirked her lips up. Ian was right, they were there to help. She told herself to stop lumping all her siblings in with Fiona. “Thanks.” she grabbed it, inspecting the machine and looking for directions. “Where'd ya get it anyway?” she pulled tubes and bottles from it.

“Alibi.” He flopped next to her on the couch, raking his fingers through his long hair. “Remembered it was a milk factory, went up there, did some diggin’.” He shrugged, grabbing the remote.

“You _stole_ it?” she scolded. “You just got out of juvie! Don't need ya going back.” The underlying thread of worry was made obvious in her words. Having Carl back was nice, the house felt more like a home again.

She always had Carl in close proximity to her, supporting and irritating her with the passion that any sibling would. She missed Carl the past few months (like she had missed everyone: Ian, Fiona, and Lip.) They all seemed to take a family hiatus, so Debbie took it upon herself to make her own. Now with Carl back, she felt a security and familiarity that was once absent, rushing back just in time for Debbie’s makeshift family to fall apart.

“Not like it was from the store, it’s fine. Just thought it’d help. Makin’ bottles and shit,” he explained, keeping the TV on mute.

Debbie smiled in admiration for her brother, small pecks of disappointment stabbing at her when she realized Fiona would never do this, and going as far as condemning those who did help.

“You can turn that up, ya know. She needs to get used to household noises, learn to sleep through them.”

Carl turned it up to a reasonable 4 on the volume meter, and watched a show. “Shouldn't you be sleeping?” he asked.

“No, why?”

“Isn't that what people say? Sleep when the baby sleeps,” he recounted the advice, eyes fixed ahead.

Debbie slumped back on the couch. She knew she should sleep, but couldn't. She had bottles to pump now. She also had to clean up the stray diapers that accumulated, switch the loads of laundry, and fold Franny’s clothes. She sat deflated on the couch, scrounging for the energy to get up, when her mind flipped to a memory of Fiona running around the house and doing chores, never stopping, never resting, never wallowing for the world to see. She clenched her jaw, annoyed with the competition she placed herself in unwillingly, and heaved herself off the couch.

“That advice is shit. Whoever said that was never a mother,” she huffed, heading to the washer.

She pulled the hodge-podge mix of clothes from the dryer, thankful Vee gave them to her, and threw them in a basket. The movement was familiar, she had done laundry since she could reach the knobs, but somehow the act was exhausting now. She pulled the clothes from the washer and threw them into the dryer, spitefully throwing Fiona’s wet clothes that were mixed in with hers on the ground, and started it up.

She reached for her thermos Ian had refilled before leaving for his run, throwing it in the basket that was secured to her hip, and made her way back to the couch. Her eyes started to droop as she folded. She jerked herself into wakefulness, and sipped the coffee. Every so often she glanced at Franny, praying she'd stay asleep and Debbie would make it in time to pump before she got up.

When she folded the last receiving blanket she grabbed the pump, stretching the tubes and grabbing the breast shields. She shimmied them up under her sweatshirt, adjusting them in place.

“You're doing that _now_?” Carl asked, astonished.

“I have to, it hurts! You can't see anything,” Debbie defended. “Flick it on.”

Carl animated his annoyance but ultimately leaned over, hitting the switch and turning it on.

“Ew, ow…” Debbie adjusted to the foreign feeling. “This is weird,” she said, not so uncomfortable as the initial awkwardness tapered away. The pump pulled at her, but the relief was immediate and she could feel the pressure and pain dissipate. Covered under her sweatshirt, she couldn't see how much she was producing, or when to stop. She held them there a little while longer, then when Franny began to stir, she turned it off.

“I'll get her.” Carl tossed the remote, letting Debbie get situated. Her eyes went wide when she saw she made six ounces from each breast. Franny only drank four ounces a feeding, so she was glad to have three feedings already accounted for.

She poured the extra into one of the bottles, screwing a nipple onto the other, then Carl handed Franny to her.

“Put this in the fridge.” She passed him the bottle. Carl agreed, walking away. “Hey,” Debbie cooed at her baby, a smile pushing through her lips as she placed the bottle in her mouth.

Franny scrunched her face, her eyes squinting then blinking open. Her tiny hand clasped around the bottle, the other around Debbie’s pinky. Deb smiled small, her heart filling at the sight. She was able to see Franny, into her big brown eyes. She liked it this way. A peacefulness floated over them, Debbie wasn't crying, she wasn't defeated and broken. She rocked Franny back and forth, slow and steady.

Debbie felt herself forming a routine, working through motherhood, and finding some semblance of a schedule that worked. The knocks of failure at the door quieting down at this small victory.

////

Fiona pushed through the door, startling Debbie. She cracked her eye open, hand secure on Franny’s back where they laid on the couch. She looked down, Franny was still sleeping, then carefully adjusted herself up, wary of disturbing the baby; she managed. She watched Fiona walk into the kitchen, a large white garment bag draped over her arm. Debbie had almost forgot about the laundry, until she heard Fiona push out a humorless chuckle.

“Really, Debs?” she dropped her eyes.

“It was mixed in with our stuff.” Debbie answered, suddenly filled with guilt. She had spent the day imitating the things Fiona did, falling into the same taxing cycle of responsibility. She saw the fault in her actions now, growing more mature as the day played out. Like a flame to paper, burning bright in her mind, Debbie started to see Fiona’s side of things.

Fiona dropped the dress on the counter, her jaw slack as she dropped her eyes in annoyance. She threw her clothes in the wash, muttering about immaturities.

“Little louder, Fiona, didn't wake the baby up yet.” Debbie still couldn’t discard her hostilities, even though they were growing weaker by the second. She still felt the heavy responsibility to defend herself, keep her guard up and always ready for a fight, even if she had to feign the strength to do so.

Fiona dropped the basket, a loud snap ringing out as it crashed to the floor. “I don't wanna wake the baby,” Fiona whispered vehemently, pushing her hair behind her ears. “I know not to wake up a baby. I know how these things go.” Debbie felt Fiona’s frustrations pour out, feeling the same on the opposite end on the conversation they haven't had yet. “I don't wanna wake the baby and I don't-” Debbie could see the tears pool in Fiona’s eyes.

“Don't want a baby,” Debbie braved, eyes narrowed in an effort to keep herself seeming stoic, pressing Franny tighter to her chest.

Fiona deflated, her eyes reflecting her surrender as her shoulders fell. “No, I don't,” she answered honestly. “And you shouldn't either-”

“But I do. I wanted her, and now I have her.” Debbie felt her heart get heavy, her eyes filled with tears she fought to ward off. She watched Fiona cross her arms, eyes widening and waiting for Debbie to see the fault in her words, as if it was obvious.

This was it, the lead up, the months, the passive fights, the _real_ fights, all led to this conversation. Debbie sat in the limbo of girl and woman, and knew it was time to pick one. It was time to be mature and meet Fiona as an equal. The child in her seemed to vanish at the realization, disappearing from her soul and jumping into the one in her arms; she wasn’t a child anymore, she had a child, her child.

“Look, Debs,” Fiona sighed, her anger gone, and sounding more drained than anything. She sat down next to Debbie, inspecting her carefully. She pushed Debbie’s hair out of her face. “I know we don't see eye to eye here, I get it.”

“No shit,” Debbie said, obviously. That giant elephant was made known the day at the clinic.

“We're not gonna get through this if you keep cuttin’ me off.”

Debbie sighed, the small remains of a bratty teenager still lingering in her.

“We’re never gonna agree here, I'm never gonna understand why you chose this.” Fiona gestured to Franny. “I did this for years. I did it at fifteen, I know what it's like. It's not what I want for myself anymore, and it’s not what I wanted for you.”

“What about what I want?” Debbie challenged, finding her voice and trying to keep her tone level. “I wanted this.”

“Well, ya got it,” Fiona retorted, trying to make it sound like a punishment.

“Yeah, I did, she's here.” Debbie said almost proudly, looking at her baby. “And you're not exactly in the position to be givin’ advice on life choices right now,” she added.

“Maybe not with everything,” Fiona agreed. “But I know what I'm talkin’ about with this.” She looked at Debbie, grabbing her free hand. Debbie let Fiona comfort her, knowing that’s what Fiona did, and found herself settling back into her role as well; Fiona’s baby sister, the girl she raised, loved, and protected.

“She’s mine, Fiona,” Debbie whispered, feeling the tears prickle in her eyes. The baby that didn’t look a shred like her, the baby that hurt her when she ate, kept her up all night, made her cry, it was _hers_. The family that disassembled, feeding Debbie’s need to replace it, was the reason she got here. To have the assurance that it would never happen again. It wasn’t about the dream of a boy anymore, it was about the baby in her arms. Franny couldn’t make Derek stay, but Debbie knew she wasn’t alone.

“You're right, she is, and she just catapulted you into adulthood. That means you make your own choices now. This was your choice.” Fiona looked at her, the plea was present in her eyes. “Just like I chose not to have this.”

“I just wish you didn't punish me for it every chance ya get,” Debbie sighed, begging for Fiona to hear her.

“Like my clothes on the floor over there,” Fiona snorted, tilting her head to the kitchen.

“Maybe that was unnecessary,” Debbie admitted, with a small smile.

“I don't want ya to fail, Debs, I just had to work through my feelings.” Fiona gripped her arm around Debbie’s shoulders, squeezing her tightly. “Maybe when I did that I forgot about yours.”

“Maybe I did the same,” Debbie agreed, seeing Fiona’s point.

After a week of living Fiona’s life, the chores, the exhaustion, the worry, the work, she began to see why Fiona did what she did. If this baby catapulted Debbie into adulthood, she guessed that meant it shot Fiona right into grandparent territory. Fiona’s life was different, after twenty-three years of pouring her soul into a household, she needed a change of pace. Her and Debbie were at two different thresholds of their lives, and Debbie guessed Fiona was just as entitled to her choices as Debbie was hers; the exact reasons Fiona wanted to get away from it, were the all the things that Debbie admired and emulated.

“I still don’t like it, and I’ll never get it, but we’re Gallaghers and we stick together. Maybe we can find a way to accept what we each did, and move on.”

“Yeah?” Debbie asked hopefully, seeing the gap closing.

“Yeah,” Fiona mirrored softly, kissing Debs’ head.

Debbie suddenly realized the energy it took to harbor resentment towards Fiona was taking a toll on her, and was better placed elsewhere. She couldn’t stop Fiona’s way of thinking, just like Fiona couldn’t stop hers. Acceptance wasn’t immediate for Debbie, but ending the disdain for her sister was.

They sat in a small silence, Fiona pressed against Debbie. “She looks like you,” Fiona cut through the silence.

“No she doesn’t,” Debbie snorted at Fiona’s attempt.

“She does,” Fiona insisted with a laugh. Debbie enjoyed the moment with Fiona, the first time she ever acknowledged Franny positively. “Got your nose, and your chubby cheeks,” Fiona gushed, not knowing the proclamation would cause a rush of emotions in Debbie. “Black hair like Liam,” Fiona continued, and Debbie knew what she was doing. “She’s a Gallagher, Debs, don’t ever look at her with a different set of eyes.”

Debbie felt a heavy tear drop from her face. “Thanks, Fi.”

“I love you, Debs, no matter what,” Fiona sniffed. “Sorry if I didn’t show it how I should’ve.” Fiona began to bob subtly, back and forth, slow and steady.

“Love you, too,” Debbie said, weeping softly. “And thanks for the coffee,” she added with a smirk, feeling the weight in her lighten.

“Knew that was me, huh?” Fiona laughed.

“Two scoops of sugar, a splash of milk, dead giveaway.”

****  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Big thanks, as always, to Serena for reading this through and making sure my story was translating. And to Holly for beta'ing and helping me along with this one! Squad always coming through. Thanks guys!


End file.
